Back in June, I was one of a group of blogging types whom the Royal Ontario Museum graciously allowed to attend the media opening of their Pompeii: In the Shadow of the Volcano exhibition (which, it should be noted, is NOT the same one that was at the British Museum a while back, although it has several of the same artifacts). Even better, they allowed — nay, encouraged — photography of the exhibition, a stark contrast with the Pointe-a-Calliere’s The Greeks: From Agamemnon to Alexander the Great (which I awkwardly live-tweeted without photos as guys in suits eyed my suspiciously). This was another indication that the Royal Ontario Museum is leading the way when it comes to making good use of social media to promote exhibitions, and I happily Storified my photos from my live tweeting of the media preview. Even so, I’ve held off writing a formal review at the time in anticipation my wife and I celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary with a Grand tourish sort of thing which would include a number of museums in Italy and, of course, a trip to Pompeii. And so what follows is a review written with ‘the real Pompeii’ and related displays in Europe in mind.
The promotional material for the exhbition includes a sentence which defines the exhibition succinctly:
[…] Displayed in the ROM;s Garfield Weston Exhibition Hall, Pompeii features approximately 200 artifacts that tell the dramatic story of an ancient city captured in time. […]
As with all decent exhibitions (as opposed to the static displays on higher floors), the Pompeii exhibition at the ROM has a narrative and is trying almost to recreate the experience of being in Pompeii before, and in the wake of, that fateful August day. As such, it is useful to early on express our umbrage at two of the earliest reviews of the exhibit from two of Canada’s largest newspapers, neither of which/whom ‘gets it’. Murray Whyte’s review for the Toronto Star opined, inter alia:
In an era where museums are desperate to reconfigure their relationship with viewers, this show is distinctly short on experience and long on information, and that’s the problem.
It does a sturdy job of unpacking Pompeii’s archeological significance: that its swift burial in the days after the eruption of Vesuvius made it a kind of vacuum-packed time capsule of everyday Roman life in the first century AD, and that its preservation is one of the keys to understanding what that life might have been like. […]
But it travels through an exhaustive, and exhausting, array of subsections, most of them cloyingly titled — “out on the town”; “open for business”; “better homes and villas” — that lard on information both useful and not. (The latter: an Onion-esque panel that assures you, “Romans used tables for the same things as we do.”)
In a similar journalistic passive-aggressive way, the Globe and Mail‘s James Adams concludes his (otherwise positive) review thusly:
In other words, Pompeii: In the Shadow of the Volcano doesn’t lack the goods, be they exotic (a selection of copies of the famous plaster casts of the entombed victims) or everyday (pans, urns, furniture, lamps, coins, spoons). Where it does falter is in the presentation.
This has less to do with the show’s organization as a warren of compartments and departments (with titles such as “Better Homes and Villas” and “Out on the Town”) than its setting. As regular visitors to the ROM’s lower depths know, the Garfield Weston Exhibition Hall can be an unforgiving space. Its vertiginous walls, linoleum-like floors, thrusting supports and angled intrusions are, more often than not, obstacles to be overcome (or at least ameliorated) rather than opportunities to be embraced.
I’m no fan of the Garfield Weston Exhibition Hall at the best of times — it is basically a rabbit warren of a space with barely any right angles and with ceiling heights that drive many an average height person nuts. But what the above reviews don’t seem to get is that using this space is actually part of the narrative and works (I actually was chatting about this very thing with Dr. Jonathan Edmondson of York University, who was among the folks I chanced upon at the exhibition that day). The GWE Hall replicates very well the experience of wandering down the narrow streets of Pompeii itself. One expects things around the next corner, but is never sure what will be there; it actually adds to the experience of the exhibition.
To return to the ‘narrative’ aspect, however, I think the curators at the ROM have outdone themselves (following the aforementioned Storified tweets will help to understand much of the following description). The ‘tour’ begins with the usual quotes being projected on a wall and then there’s what I call the ‘touchy feely’ section. One can touch a bit of pumice from Pompeii, and then one gets one of the most famous pieces … the dog cast:
It’s probably the most famous piece to come out of Pompeii, of course, and if you go to the site of Pompeii itself, you can poke your nose/camera through an iron gate to see another cast of same that looks like this:
Whichever you prefer, the folks around you will generally go ‘awwwww … poor puppy’, especially when they see that he/she was likely tied up at the time of the eruption. I still remember one of my profs in a Class Civ class muttering how people seem to feel more about the puppy than the 1000+ humans who died in the event. I’d like to think that the curation team at the ROM were well aware of the usual reaction to this piece and put it early on in the journey to prevent it from hijacking the narrative later on.
Once you ‘go around a corner’, the real narrative begins. We first encounter plenty of statuary of people of various ages and positions; we are putting faces on the people who actually lived in Pompeii. We continue by wandering through various aspects of their lives at the time, with the expected nods to gladiators, theatre, and the like. We see images reflecting the variety of religions which were current and occupations people worked and slaved at. Then the narrative grows a bit darker, and we’re reminded:
Many of these folks had probably lived through the earthquake a decade and a half before. There were warning signs …
There is more wandering though other things associated with Pompeii, and many which allow for connections outside the show itself. A prime example is the room which has the ‘adult’ material, which includes the famous Satyr and Goat piece:
… which thankfully (for teachers) is in a separate section so if you don’t want to look at such things (or can’t, because of the kiddies), you don’t have to. This is a practical contrast to the British Museum’s attitude to the piece, which probably limited the age of the audience and the usefulness of the exhibition for teachers. If you do go in, however, in addition to the expected brothel frescoes and penis lamps, one can ponder the ithyphallic Priapus and his possible penis disorder that was recently in the news.
But even without that, there is plenty to marvel at, whether it is the exceptionally fine mosaics (which startled me):
… or frescoes with subject matter which would endure through various painting styles:
… and on and on. I was impressed that the exhibit briefly mentions the controversy over the date of the eruption (did it happen in August?), but I would have liked a bit more on that score than this passing mention:
Whatever the case, one eventually winds through the GWEH rabbit warren and is met by this woman (from Herculaneum, not Pompeii … a reminder that Pompeii was not alone):
Proceeding down a short alley, we are dragged back to realize the human toll, with another famous cast:
… which is definitely more dramatic than what you’d see at Pompeii itself:
… and suddenly you’re in a room with just casts. And it’s dead silent as the impact sets in on the audience, especially this piece, which includes some of the ‘new technique’ 3d casts which were in the news just as the exhibition opened:
… and this one, which looks an awful lot like a family just lounging in the backyard on a Canadian summer day:
And so the narrative ends and the human toll is definitely recognized and stressed. I could contrast and editorialize about the (to me) bizarre casts display currently in a pyramid in the Pompeii amphitheatre, but that’s another story. Pompeii: In the Shadow of the Volcano is a stunning exhibition and certainly rivals going to Pompeii itself, which has had to deal with strikes and accessibility issues lately (I doubt they can do anything about the 40+ degree heat we had to deal with). It’s easily the best exhibition I’ve seen in a long time, possibly ever, and I’d strongly recommend that all Classics types in range of Toronto make a serious effort to see it before it departs for Montreal in January. School teachers can also make ancient Rome very real for their students (skip the one section, obviously) with this exhibition and a trip upstairs to the ROM’s generally excellent ancient Greek, Roman, and Egypt collections as well. Definitely worth it!!!
Background: Dr Elizabeth Barber and Kim Caulfield are investigating Roman and pre-Roman distaffs and are seeking help finding examples, since they are often misidentified in collections. I include both the pdf they sent me as well as a html version of their “Wanted Poster” below since I could not extract some of the images (best seen in the pdf).
The PDF: distaff flyer
We are studying ancient hand-held distaffs of various materials (wood, bronze, bone, ivory, etc.), and especially the spiral glass distaffs made by the Etruscans and Romans. The glass ones (and some of the others) have a ring at the bottom through which the spinner passes her little finger so as to hold the distaff in a relaxed way (making it possible to spin for much longer periods of time). Making cloth and clothing was extremely important, and time-consuming, in ancient cultures.
We would appreciate information about distaffs in museums and private collections, and we are also looking to study some of these artifacts straight from the excavations, before they are placed in museums. The reason we are sending this “Wanted poster” around is that distaffs are frequently misidentified, so that it is extremely difficult to “search” them in electronic databases. Such artifacts are frequently described as “Wine Stirrers” or “Stirring Rods,” “Dippers” or “Spatulas,” a few even as “medical” tools. Those found at archaeological excavations, instead of on the art market, however, virtually always occur in textile contexts. Please keep an eye out for them, no matter what aliases they may have: they can be hiding in plain view! Have you seen any of the following?
3 glass distaffs from a private collection.
These artifacts are usually 20-30 cm. (8-12 inches) long; they have slender twisted glass shafts formed into a loop at one end. They often have a bird on the other end, though sometimes just a knob or flattened piece of glass. Some, like one distaff in this picture, have a whorl on the shaft. These are of particular interest to us, as they have a special function in spinning.
Bone and Ivory Distaffs
The Romans sometimes made distaffs of bone. We are particularly interested in distaffs with a loop on the lower end (for support by the little finger) and also possibly one or more discs on the shaft (to support the fibers as they are paid out into the thread). Bone and ivory distaffs of this type sometimes have animals carved on their tops, but many have goddesses. Here is a lovely example with a goddess.
There are a few Roman bronze distaffs with finger loops. Here is an example.
The bronze distaff below is from Jordan, 1500-1300 BCE. We would like to know of others that are similar—that is, with a whorl fixed near the middle of the shaft (where it makes use as a spindle very difficult, but aids use as a distaff). This one was called a spindle, so others may be mislabeled as well.
from a private collection
Thin bronze shafts with multiple discs or whorls fixed along the shaft, each at about a finger-width distance from its neighbors, may also have been distaffs, although usually catalogued as cloak pins. (In spinning, such discs help to control paying out the fibers into the thread as it forms.) Clearly, information concerning exact find-spots will be needed to sort out this problem.
According to ancient literature, there were also distaffs made of silver and gold. We would like to know of any examples.
There are, of course, other forms of ancient hand-held distaffs, and we would like to learn of them too. These were of wood, metal, bone, ivory, or glass. Again, they were generally 20-30 cm (8-12 inches) in length. Some had support rings—that is, whorls or rings fixed on the shaft for the spinner to rest on top of a finger, both to support the spindle and to draft fibers over. Some had movable whorls across their shafts. There are other artifacts that are not unsimilar and often confused with distaffs, including spoons, hair pins, medical tools, and sometimes spindles. Sometimes it is hard to be sure what an artifact is without handling it, or experimenting with a reproduction.
We are hoping to learn of what are probably numerous distaffs in museums and private collections, and we would like, if possible, to collect statistics such as length and weight, as well as photographs. But we are also hoping to locate distaffs as the excavators discover them, in the hopes that they will be easier to study closely before they go to museums or sales. There are some key attributes, such as balance, that can be evaluated only by touch.
Accession or reference number:
Place of origin (provenance):
Date of artifact:
We are trying to understand both the evolution and the use of these surprising tools, and are happy to share what we are learning. If you spot a distaff, or a possible distaff, please contact Dr. Elizabeth Barber at barber AT oxy.edu or Kim Caulfield at kimcaulfield AT mac.com
Many thanks for any time and attention you can give to this quest!